


Tough Kid

by oOAchilliaOo



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Shenko - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 19:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12659736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oOAchilliaOo/pseuds/oOAchilliaOo
Summary: She proved she was tough the first time he met her, 16 years old and standing the wreckage of her home. The next time her saw her only confirmed it. Each time they came together she raised the bar on toughness up to and including saving the whole damn galaxy.He’s proud of that kid, so proud.





	Tough Kid

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

Can’t help but think it. She’s a scrawny little thing, covered in scrapes and bruises and dirt and blood and she’s shaking like a leaf…

But the pistol she’s pointing squarely at his chest is utterly, utterly still.

Around her there are four bodies. Two humans, one man, one woman, and two batarians, both male. The humans lie on their backs their hands carefully laid across their stomachs, their eyes closed, so peaceful that they could almost be sleeping, but for the holes in their heads. By contrast, the batarians appear to have been left where they fell, their bodies twisted, limbs flung out at odd, awkward angles. All eight eyes are open, staring blankly at nothing.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened.

“It’s ok,” he says softly, using his best ‘soothing’ voice. “You’re ok now.”

“Who are you?” the girl barks and she’s still shaking, but there’s something hard and fiery in her eyes that both impresses the hell out of him and makes him cautious.

“My name is Commander Anderson,” he says slowly, carefully laying his rifle on the floor. “I’m Alliance, see?” He half turns away from her, tapping the insignia on his shoulder.

Slowly she lowers the pistol.

“You’re too late,” she says, her voice now small and unsure as her eyes flicker unseeing across the four bodies before her.

“I know,” he replies and God, they had been late, too late.  The dead civilians told him that, the swathes of missing civilians told him even more. “But we’re here now, and we’re going to keep you safe.”

She nods but doesn’t meet his eyes and she still looks doubtful. Given what she must have been though recently he can’t exactly blame her for that. 

It takes him a long while to coax her out from behind the couch where she seems to have made her refuge but eventually she does emerge. He doesn’t miss the fact that she chooses to walk the long way around, the route that has her stepping over the batarian bodies instead of the human ones. She won’t relinquish the pistol, no matter what he says and as they walk through the wreckage of what must once have been her home he senses the tension in her, sees the way her eyes dart about frantically, expecting danger at every turn.

“How old are you, kid?” he asks, attempting small talk in the hopes of taking her mind off her nervousness, particularly important while she still holds the pistol with her finger on the trigger. 

“Sixteen,” she replies, her voice now strong and sure. “And I’m not a ‘kid’.”

Anderson smiles despite himself and decides to take a gamble.

“Hey,” he says, stopping amidst the carnage and reaching over to reposition her fingers on the pistol. “Keep your finger off the trigger till you’re looking at something you want to kill.  It’s a good way to accidently shoot yourself otherwise.”

She looks at the gun, confused for a moment before moving her index finger from where he’d placed it, to the trigger and back again. Then she nods.

“Thanks,” she says plainly. 

“You’re welcome.”

They continue walking and as they do he feels the shift in her, the subtle change from nervousness to alertness. By the time they reach the forward operating base he’s virtually stopped checking his three and six, because he knows she’s got that covered.

Her stomach gives a loud growl just as they pass the perimeter and it’s then he discovers that she hasn’t eaten a single bite in the last twelve hours. He marches her straight to the mess and, apologising for the lack of any kind of flavour, he dumps a tray in front of her. She only picks at the food with one hand, still unwilling to release the pistol, but she hasn’t once put her finger on the trigger since he moved it so he’s inclined to trust her with it, at least for now.

“What’s your name kid?” he asks, once he’s seen her eat a couple of mouthfuls.

“Sarah,” she replies. “Sarah Shepard.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened, Sarah?” he asks gently. He expects her to say no, he expects her to stop meeting his eyes.

She does neither. Instead she just shrugs.

“They killed my parents,” she says and there’s something horribly dead in her eyes. “So I took Dad’s pistol and killed them back.”

“That was very brave,” he tells her and after a little introspection is unsurprised to discover he means every word.

She shrugs again.

“I was just trying to survive.”

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

There aren’t many nineteen year olds, fresh out of basic (or rather, almost out of basic) who can take that kind of dressing down. Hell, he still considers it a personal failure if he can’t make at least one member of each crew he captains metaphorically wet their pants at least once. But she’s almost serene as she takes the verbal assault she both deserves and doesn’t deserve.

No-one has ever beaten the end-of-basic-training sim. 

Or rather.

Before today, no-one had ever beaten the end-of-basic-training sim.

But then again, no-one had ever managed to kill their entire team and utterly destroy the power plant either.

He didn’t mean to be here. Or rather, he hadn’t intended to be here. His ship was docked at Arcturus for yearly maintenance and the walk back from his meeting with the admiralty board to his quarters just so happened to lead through recruit barracks. He’d heard the noise coming from the sim chamber as he passed and had glanced up at the board of names on reflex only to find that there, next to the title ‘Squad Leader’, was _her_ name. Of course, he hadn’t been able to resist the chance to see her in action.

Once he’d entered the chamber, recognising the corridors of the ‘power plant’ mission from his own passing-out sim, he’d had no trouble believing that the soldier he saw was the same girl from nearly four years ago. He’d watched as she barked orders to her team, watched as they obeyed her without question.

That was the first unusual thing. Never, in all his years of service, had he seen a basic training squad without at least one uppity legacy child who believed they _should_ have been squad leader and therefore questioned everything that the chosen leader said whether there was any merit in it or not.

But no-one gave her even so as much as a funny look.

The second unusual thing were her tactics. Her team was spread thin, way too thin. There were two ways that recruits tackled this particular sim; two ways that they were surreptitiously _taught_ to tackle the sim. You either moved together and made a beeline for the data you had to send to Alliance Command or, you split into smaller teams, checked the building, kept an exit clear _then_ went for the data. Both had advantages and disadvantages. The twist came when the nuclear reactor began to overload, blocking access to the data and forcing you to spend valuable time containing the reaction. Victory was usually measured in one of two ways, either you got your team out alive or you got half your team out alive and killed all contacts within the building.

She had done neither… unless, he supposed, you considered that the explosion would have killed all remaining contacts. 

But, somehow, she achieved the _actual_ objective and got the data.

From the beginning of the sim, she’d split her team into pairs rather than the usual three person squad. This had left three teams without an engineer but had given her an engineering team which she’d sent to clear the reactor. The three teams without technical expertise had twice come up against a door they couldn’t open and been forced to double back to find an alternative route. Since there wasn’t one, they found themselves unfortunately boxed in when the enemy hit and by the time Shepard had ordered them to just _‘blow the damn doors!’_ they were already dead. 

From there, the enemy swept through the building in a group too large for any two-person squad to handle and so, one by one, her teams died (though not without giving a damn good fight first). Everything had looked bleak until the engineering squad had managed to warn Shepard about the upcoming overload five minutes before it happened. She’d ordered them to leave it, to let the reactor overload. Then she’d ordered everyone out. To be fair to her team a few of them almost made it.

As soon as she’d barked the order to evac, she’d taken off like a shot. He’d never seen anything like it; nothing touched her as she barrelled through the power plant, leaping and bounding over cover, shooting as she moved, never stopping until she got to the data console. Then she’d held out, alone, for a minute and a half before the programmed collapse happened and she was left trapped _in with the data console._

She’d sent the data to Alliance Command a full three minutes before the reactor blew.

The sim debrief has been going on for half an hour, and the drill sergeant is still bawling about ‘reckless behaviour’ and ‘unnecessary loss of life’ mixed in with ‘squad configuration protocol’ and the obligatory unfavourable comparisons of her to various bug or bug-like creatures.  

“ARE YOU AWARE OF JUST HOW BADLY YOU HAVE FUCKED UP CADET?” he finishes, finally allowing her to respond.

“SIR, YES, SIR!” she responds automatically, standing stiffly at parade rest and staring at a spot somewhere over the sergeant’s left shoulder. “But…” she adds, just as the sergeant takes the breath necessary to being his tirade anew. “It was mission accomplished, sir, the data _was_ sent.” 

“Only because you have a _staggering_ disregard for your squad’s life!” he barks back.

“Yes, sir,” she agrees. “But according to the mission brief the data contained in the package will power four colonies. Approximately fifteen point four colonists die per colony per year due to insufficient power, sir. I have just saved sixty one point six civilian lives at the expense of twelve soldiers. Sir.” 

The room goes deadly quiet. He’s fairly certain no-one is breathing. In fact, he isn’t even sure _he’s_ breathing. 

Eventually the drill instructor lets out a whoosh of breath. “I don’t know whether you’re the worst soldier I’ve ever trained, or the best.” He pauses for an almost uncomfortably long time before continuing. “You pass. But you’re doing fifty laps around the mess and then after that, I’m buying you a drink.” 

“Understood, sir.”

It’s as her squad are filtering out of the sim room that she spots him. When she does she immediately straightens to attention. He wonders whether it’s a reaction to the officer’s bars on his jacket or a mark of respect.

“Sir,” she says with a mixture of surprise and wariness. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Sir?” A smile quirks his lips. “Don’t tell me you’re going all formal on me?”

She relaxes immediately.

“It’s good to see you, Anderson,” she says instead, coming to lean on the viewing gallery’s rail next to him.

“And you, kid,” he replies, fully aware of how genuinely he means those words. “That was an… interesting sim.”

Immediately the wariness comes back into her eyes and she stiffens ever so slightly.

“I did what I thought was best.” She pauses. “What did you do?”

“Me?” he chuckles. “I used the standard three-man configuration, lost the data, saved the team. But… if I’d thought to do what you did, if I’ve have had the courage, I might have done the same.”

She seems inordinately pleased at that, even though it’s only the truth and relaxes a little more.

“Come on,” he says, once he thinks she’s had enough of a moment overlooking her victory. “You have laps and then I might just owe you a drink as well.”

She grins and straightens what must be a weary, aching body. “Understood, sir.” She rolls her left shoulder in its joint and marches out towards the mess.

_Tough kid._

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

It is her, even if her face is mostly covered in her own blood and completely unrecognisable, he could never mistake those eyes. 

She’s sat on a makeshift hospital gurney that’s really a surfboard balanced on a box and covered with a blanket. A frustrated-looking nurse darts around her, attempting to clean and dress the wounds on both her face and body.  She’s somewhat hampered in the endeavour by Shepard herself who seems intent on impatiently brushing her hands away whenever she gets close.

“For the last time, I’m _fine,”_ she spits, batting the nurse’s hands away from an injury over her eye. “I can stand and I can breathe. I have no internal bleeding or life threatening injuries, perhaps you should attend to those who _do!”_ She rushes out the last word as she’s forced to leap off the surfboard in order to avoid the nurse’s ‘sneak attack’ on a particularly nasty looking gash on her side.

“And my report said the fighting was over,” he comments calmly as he enters the room. His words produce the desired effect, she immediately ceases her efforts to evade the nurse and stiffens before spinning around and saluting.

“Sir,” she barks, standing perfectly to attention despite the many injuries he can now see.

He didn’t reply, just gave her the look, the one that reminds her she doesn’t need to be formal with him. She drops her stance almost immediately.

“Anderson.” She nods.

“Give us a minute,” he says to the nurse. She shoots him an impressively dirty look, her eyes darting to Shepard’s injuries in frustration before leaving with an unmistakable air of ‘your funeral’.

“Making friends I see,” he comments sarcastically.

“There are others who need her more,” Shepard bristles.

“Easy, Shepard, I understand,” he replies soothingly and she relaxes a little. It’s only the slightest easing but he understands that too.  Most soldiers wouldn’t have survived what she just has. Frankly, he’d be worried if she were capable of completely relaxing after such an ordeal.

Hell, if she accepts what he’s come to offer her she probably won’t be able to relax for years.

But she’s ready for it. He’s almost certain of that; he just needs to be sure of one thing.   

“So, batarian raiders on a human colony…”

“It wasn’t revenge,” she interrupts. He’s a little surprised that she’s worked out his angle but he supposes he shouldn’t be. She’s smart and he wasn’t exactly subtle.

“Are you sure?”

She leans against the makeshift gurney, chewing her lip as she gives the matter the introspection it deserves.

“I didn’t kill unless I had to,” she says after a moment. “I didn’t take uncalculated risks. My past was a factor, I didn’t want anyone to have to go through what I did, but it wasn’t one that adversely affected the mission, sir.”

She sounds like she’s reading out loud. Like she’s already considered the matter, maybe even drafted her mission report, but thought about it in more depth simply because he’d asked.

And that’s good enough for him.

“You know your mission was technically to try and enjoy some shore leave,” he tells her, leaning against the gurney too.

“Right,” she says, the ghost of a smile appearing on her face. “I abandoned that mission when the batarians destroyed the bar.”

Anderson nods. “Fair enough.” He waits for a moment, giving her the time and space she needs in order to pull herself away from the memories of the past few days.  “I have something for you.”

He pulls a datapad from his back pocket, and she takes it from his outstretched arm, shooting him a confused look that he doesn’t respond to. She reads the first part; the ‘Star of Terra’ recommendation, the long winded but somehow horribly generic ‘thanks for her service above and beyond the call of duty’ with a bored but curious look. Then her eyes go wide and he knows she’s reached the important bit.

“N7?” she says, too excited to hide her delight. “I’m being recommended for the N7 programme?”

He shrugs. “You earned it. More than earned it. That’s why _I_ recommended you.”

It’s clear that she’s having trouble processing that and once again he gives her space she needs.

“When do I report in?” she asks.

She’s still bleeding, just a little, countless numbers of scrapes and bruises all over her body which still need seeing to, not to mention that she still hasn’t really had the shore leave due from her last tour, and yet, somehow she’s prepared to dive into the next thing without hesitation.

_Tough kid_ , he thinks even as he orders her to take the break… _tough kid._

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

To be fair, they’re all tough, she’s just the toughest.

He knows this because she’s the only one left standing, even if her oxygen tank is on its last legs

This time he had intended to be here. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to be here for this. He’d been keeping up with her scores, every single one of them. For the most part they had been exemplary, her shooting, tactics, leadership, and recon scores were virtually off the charts, even if she’d barely scraped by on tech and engineering. Still, her average was way above par, and now it all came down to this. To survival. 

She’s the only one left on the asteroid now, but of course she doesn’t know that. He half-wishes he could tell her, just to see if it had any effect on her determination to continue. He suspects it wouldn’t. In fact, he’d bet good money that even if she knew she’d outlasted all her other classmates she’d go on just to see how far she could go.

The others have already been safely extracted. Despite what people thought, the Alliance didn’t let soldiers good enough to be recommended for the N7 programme die during the training.

This particular test was both the first and last taste of N7 training. The entire squad dropped onto an asteroid with an absolute bare minimum of supplies, a single oxygen tank and no nav data. The aim? To traverse as much of the asteroid as possible before you suffocated.

There were a multitude of things you could do to extend what little time you had, but in the end it all came down to endurance and control.

The last of her classmates to fall had been picked up about three to four minutes ago and are still in the infirmary being treated for oxygen deprivation. The first are already in the training centre alongside him, watching with a mixture of disbelief, envy and pride.

After another minute or so, he watches as her tank’s warning alarm changes from an incessant beeping to a high pitched continuous whine. A few seconds after he sees the tell-tale tightening of her jaw as she holds her breath. Three minutes later, she begins gasping but it’s still another full minute before she collapses and even then for four seconds more she manages to drag herself a few millimetres further.

He watches with bated breath as the drone speeds across the terrain and attaches its respirator to her helmet. Then the shuttle arrives and the medics bundle her onto a gurney and bring her back to the base.

He sits beside her as she recovers, watching for the moment her eyes slowly blink open.

“Hey,” he says when they do. She only blinks at him her gaze still foggy as she glances around the room and pieces together the chain of events that led her here. Slowly she lifts the respirator mask away from her mouth just barely able to summon the strength to drag it down.

“Sir,” she croaks, wincing at the sound.

“No need to be so formal, Shepard.”

She smirks. “Anderson.”

“Better.”

“How… How did I do?” He knows that the pause is due to the effort it takes to form the words and not because of any trepidation on her part. 

“Last one standing.” He’s completely unable to stop himself from grinning at her.

But she shakes her head, tousling her hair against the pillow. “No,” she clarifies. “How did I do compared to last time?”

He has to actually look that one up, checking her time from the beginning of her N7 training against her latest time on his omni-tool.

“An extra 5 minutes,” he tells her, trying his best to conceal the fact that while all her scores had been exemplary, this is the one that actually impresses the hell of him. “You were only a little shy of the record.”

She frowns. “Damn. Whose record?”

He grins.

“Mine.”

He steps out of the way of the incoming medics who promptly usher him out of her room. Just before he closes the door, he catches one last croaky sentence.

“I’ll get you next time, sir.”

He chuckles to himself.

_Tough kid._

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

Of course she’s fine. Well, ‘fine’ might be stretching it, but conscious enough to stand and gripe at Chakwas was close enough for him.

All things considered it’s been a hell of a shakedown cruise.

That she’s handled it well is no surprise, after all it’s part of an N7’s job to adapt. She’d barely blinked at the Spectre nomination, which had surprised him a little. Especially since he knew she had no illusions about the historical importance of the nomination or the burdens that would come from making the grade. The fact that it hadn’t changed her approach to the mission one iota only reassured him that they’d chosen correctly.

Although of course her chances of actually _becoming_ a Spectre are now somewhat reduced anyway.

But if anyone could cut through the bullshit, it’s her. She’s a natural leader, to the point that if she told him her management of the platoon was entirely based on instinct, he’d not only believe her but he’d happily let it continue. 

His optimism ends the moment she mentions Saren’s name. It’s a name that drags up a whole host of unpleasant memories as well as the uneasy feeling that at some point he’s going to have to tell her about his personal history with the Spectre.  It’s odd but he finds he doesn’t really want to, doesn’t want to admit that he screwed up, not to her. But he knows she isn’t going to buy any vague untruths.

For the moment it’s all a political problem that he can happily slide Udina’s way. He may not like the man but his ability to deal with the Council was something to be lauded. The idea of having to deal with the Council _himself_ is almost enough to bring him out in hives.

He suspects that her opinion of politics doesn’t differ much from his own. But as they’re going to have to at least dabble in politics he can only pray that she’s as good at masking her disdain as he’s had to. Not that watching her punch her way through the politics wouldn’t be infinitely amusing. If that is to be her approach, at least he’ll have a front row seat.

All things considered, he should have known that their first mission together would end in _some_ kind of explosion. After all this is a woman who turned shore leave into one of the most famous fights in recent years.

At least he knows that she can handle whatever’s coming.

Probably. 

_Tough kid._

 

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

He chuckles to himself as he shakes his head, laughing at his foolishness for even thinking that she _could_ have perished. Not that those few minutes where he’d believed her gone hadn’t been utterly awful. He was sure he’d never forget the sinking feeling he’d felt in his gut when the only answer her squad could give to the question ‘where is the commander?’ was a horrified look. 

But, of course, she was fine. There had been a flicker of movement, a shift and suddenly there she was, climbing atop of a random piece of wreckage to grin down at them. Granted, she looked a little pained, a little tired but she also looked gloriously victorious and utterly elated.  

Not that she was looking at him, he realised. No. Instead her gaze appeared to be entirely fixated on the lieutenant. Glancing to his side, he noticed that the lieutenant’s gaze was just as fixed on her. The expression on his face was hard to read, a mixture of a multitude of things relief, joy and…

Oh.

_Oh._

So that had happened. Or was going to happen soon. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t _need_ to know.

He wasn’t surprised as such. Not about ‘them’. There had been evidence of some spark between them from the moment they’d both been aboard. It had only taken him a week or so to notice the signs; she smiled more around him, he talked more to her than he did anyone else on the ship, there had been a certain synchronised rhythm to their duties and reports. He just hadn’t bothered to call her on it because he assumed she wouldn’t be stupid enough to pursue anything while they were _on duty._

But, judging by the looks on their faces, _something_ had had to have happened between them.

He ought to box her ears for it.  

But that would mean admitting that he knew, which would probably lead to an awkward, halting conversation about _feelings_ and _love_ and (horror of horrors) possibly even _sex._  

Yes. No. He wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot barge pole. She was a smart woman, right? Right. She knew the dangers, knew how to compartmentalize.

She’d be fine. They’d be fine.

_Tough kid._

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

_But not tough enough… this time._

The information had come in stages. The first report said only that the Normandy had been attacked, had been shot down. The second had told him that the escape pods had jettisoned. He’d breathed easier after that. The third report was just a list of names. The fourth report said Shepard was MIA.

He hadn’t believed it. He’d assumed it would be like last time, in the Council Chamber. Like all the times she had come close to death and emerged victoriously from the clutches of whatever had threatened to destroy her. He just kept waiting for the report from the SSV York that said they’d found her alive and well.

Obviously that report had never arrived.

He still hadn’t _really_ believed it until the moment the lieutenant stepped off the ship.  When he did, one look at Alenko’s face had been all the proof he’d needed.

She was gone.

He was supposed to speak at her funeral. They wanted him to talk about what a hero she’d been, what a boon to humanity she was, recite her exemplary service record.

He’d declined the honour. Passed it to Hackett.

There were two reasons for that. One, he’d been fairly certain that he couldn’t deliver something as generic as they wanted, and anything that wasn’t that generic garbage would be more detail than she’d want him to share, Two, he didn’t want to be stood up there, alone, with the empty coffin, trying to hide his grief and failing.

No, he much preferred to be sat, in the stands, beside the only person who felt her loss in almost the same way he did.

The lieutenant has barely spoken since he returned, and there’s been a horrible dead look behind his eyes. She would have boxed his ears for it, but he does nothing. It helps, being with someone who understands what it feels like. Someone who had also lost something important, even if one of them lost a lover and one of them lost a… whatever she’d been.

Somebody (he thinks it might, somewhat hilariously, have even been Saren Arterius) had referred to her as his protégé. He was right, in a way. She had been that, but so much more. He’s not entirely sure he could define it even if he tried.

He struggles with his grief for several weeks after the funeral, piecing himself back together in the way he’s had to do far too many times. After a month or so he feels well enough to check on the lieutenant. As he’d expected, the man is utterly destroyed. Then they drink whiskey and share their stories about her and after they are both a little better.

He promises her that he’ll look after her protégé, her lover. Both because he’s a talented marine and because he’s the only man she ever gave the entirety of herself to. Even if he’d never asked her about it, he’d known enough to know just what Alenko had meant to her.

“I’ll look after him, kid,” he tells her headstone.

_Tough kid,_ he thinks as he remembers her on the first anniversary of her death.

_Tough kid._

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

He watches the security feed, the secret, secured feed that he’d only been given because the title on his office door says ‘Human Councillor’ these days.  The footage wasn’t much, just a back street in Omega somewhere, but the figure walking down the street is unmistakably her.

Or, perhaps, a damn good lookalike.

After a moment’s introspection he decides that, as unlikely as it is, he wouldn’t be utterly surprised to find that she’d cheated death. She’d always been capable of the impossible, and while coming back from the dead is perhaps a step above saving the entire galaxy, it’s not so great a leap that he could dismiss the possibility that this could somehow be the  _real_  Shepard.

But he also can’t dismiss the possibility that it isn’t.

Especially because the Shepard he knew would never work for Cerberus.  

He scrubs a hand over tired eyes (always tired these days) and wonders what the hell he’s going to do about it all.  Just thinking about it is enough to make him long for the days when all his problems could be solved with a rifle or a fist.

Of course, thanks to her, those days are probably long behind him, at least until the Reapers roll through. Some days he thinks they can’t come soon enough.

Wait… is he _looking forward_  to the _Reaper invasion_?

Short answer?

Yes.

If it means the solution to all his problems can be easily found at the end of a rifle he’d take just about anything right now.

He’s avoiding the issue.

The only thing that he can decide upon right now is that he can’t possibly decide right now. At least not until he’s given her the chance to explain. He owes her that much.

He keeps the feed running on his terminal and uses a nearby datapad to type the message to her ship. He’s about halfway through when a shout and a thud draws his attention back to the terminal. Just in time to see her turn from the bar and unabashedly deck a batarian with her incredible right hook.

He tries not to smile, even though he knows she can’t see him. It’s good to see that some things haven’t changed.

_Tough kid._

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

The moniker has never been more appropriate or more perfect because today she managed to do what he couldn’t.

She managed to leave Earth to save it.

And he couldn’t.

He’d planned to. He’d set up the Normandy as his mobile command base and had drawn up an excessive number of extraction plans to make sure he could get to it, no matter where the Reapers hit.

But somehow, when he’d been stood before the ramp he just couldn’t bring himself to make the leap.

He supposes that the guilt, guilt he knows she doesn’t carry, played a huge part in what is possibly the most snap, instinctual decision he’s ever made. In his heart of hearts he knows he should have done more to prepare for this day, this horrible tragic day that had loomed on the horizon for the past three years.

But the relative peace and safety of the Citadel, the Council’s constant focus on the day-to-day minutia, had made today’s death and devastation hard to imagine. Or, if not hard to imagine, at least hard to keep in his mind. He’d be lying if he said that it hadn’t made him a little bit lazy, and even in his worse moments, a little bit doubtful too.

He isn’t sure how, because the gunfire, explosions and whatever the hell noise it is the Reapers make ought to make hearing anything else impossible but, as he dives for cover under the nearest pile of wreckage, he swears he hears Normandy’s engines sputter to life over the cacophony.

His ship, leaving Earth without him.

And it is _his_ ship. She might be forever linked to Shepard in the mind of everyone else in the galaxy, but he still remembers the moment Admiral Wright had said the magical words ‘she’s yours’ as they stood on the bridge of the SR1.

At least this time it’s his choice to stay behind.

Even if it means he’s once again letting the fate of the galaxy sit squarely on her shoulders while he does the busy work.

But that’s okay, she can handle it.

_Tough kid._

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

_She’s a tough kid, she’ll make it through this._

It’s what he tells himself but for the first time he isn’t totally sure. He can’t remember the last time he’d actually had to school her, talk to her as if she were like any other marine. But she’d needed that from him today. By God, she really had.

He can’t recall her ever _losing_ before.

Sure, unfortunate situations had arisen in her time: Elysium, Eden Prime, Virmire, Alchera, not to mention all the others along the way even before then. It’s part of being a soldier, the inevitable price of battle.

But she’s never outright _lost_ before.

Never come through something with _only_ the loss to show for it.

It’s killing her. One look at her face had told him that, so obvious that it had even been visible over the grainy, patchy QEC interface that was the best he could get in war-torn London.

There were a lot of things he wished he could tell her. Most of all, he wished he could show her what her actions meant here on the front line.

The news that the legendary Commander Shepard had brokered an alliance between the Turians and Krogan had been met initially with cheers and smiles. But it was more than that. For weeks afterwards, the men had walked a little taller, smiled a little more and complained a little less. With news of every new victory, every triumph, things got a little brighter. Hope was a powerful thing and she’d been its champion throughout this whole ugly war.

At least until now.

Losing Thessia was a blow, no two ways about that, but it was a blow that could either extinguish hope or light the fires of vengeance.

It _had_ to be the latter.

However, he wasn’t sure she had anything left.

All things considered, he was extremely worried about her. They’d had precious few chances to talk, but back before the war she’d made some off handed sarcastic comment about the whole ‘dying’ thing and he’d realised just how little _time_ she’d had to process everything.

If she’d been a marine in a coma, she’d have had at least six months of physical and psychological therapy followed by a slow introduction to the rest of the world, and help reconnecting with friends, family and loved ones. There would have been follow-ups and counselling and she wouldn’t have been placed in any stressful situations until the Alliance were certain she could cope with them.

Instead she’d been thrown into combat from the moment she woke, then into a suicide mission, into the courtroom, and finally, into the war.

He’s pretty sure that the box of things marked ‘deal with later’ that all good soldiers keep at back of their minds is all-but full in her case.

He isn’t sure that there’s room for Thessia in that box.

He wants to tell her that he understands, that everything she’s already done is enough and no-one, not even him has the right to ask anything more of her.

But that isn’t what she needs.

“Shake this off, Shepard,” he says.

The change in her is slight, but instantaneous. She stands a little straighter, squares her shoulders and nods. “I will.”

And he believes it.

_Tough kid._  

*

_Tough kid,_ he thinks.

He’s fully aware that this is probably the last time he’ll think it. Probably the last time he’ll think anything. He’s dying, but that’s ok. He doesn’t blame her for the shot, not at all.

He’s going to pass out before she does, if she even passes out at all. _Tough kid._

At least he got to tell her she’s made him proud. Somehow, while the galaxy is ablaze before them, that’s important.

It takes a gargantuan effort to lift his head enough to see her out of the corner of his eye and maybe it’s the blood loss, maybe it’s the exhaustion, he isn’t sure - but for just a moment she almost looks like that trembling sixteen year old with the perfectly still pistol. 

“Stay with me, sir,” she’s saying, but her voice is so distant and indistinct he can barely hear the words. “We’re… We’re _almost_ through this.”

But the void is calling and it seems like too much to ask of his broken body, broken spirit to resist it.

She’ll survive. He’s certain of that. 

_Tough kid._

_Tough…_


End file.
